Bullet
by Gray Wings
Summary: Charles runs. Erik follows. [Assassins AU]


**Notes: ** Inspired by the video, Curve the Bullet (credit to LightNeverFades)

X Men belongs to Marvel. I just play with them.

* * *

**Curve the Bullet**

He can feel him.

The fire, inside out. The howl of the gun, the cold of the metal about his fingers – oh, he can taste his anger and it is _delicious_.

Run, run, he follows. Follow me doll, follow.

The chase has been long, from Paris to Lübeck, and every mile had been electrifying – every night, every breath counted as last. But he found him, and Charles found him back, and here it would end.

Two shots; Charles ducks into an alley, the wall taking the brunt of the man's anger, and laughs – gleeful and ugly and _right_. There is a shout behind him, a German curse, and he laughs harder and takes off, feet pounding against the pavement – down towards the docks. The man follows.

Turn and twist with the bullets; two more, caught in the wind, in glass. Charles covers his eyes from a hail of shards and rolls into the gaping emptiness of a deserted hanger, smile so wide it hurts. The footsteps pause at the threshold and he waits, gun cocked. The man's heart is Charles', the second he makes a sound.

A sigh.

Charles pulls the trigger, and the bullet will find its target. He knows, he always does, so where is the telltale stumble, the empty thud of lifeless flesh?

He fires again, moves forward and fires again, excitement building, blinding and he is sprinting forward, laughing and the gun goes off and off and off.

The man is a silhouette, his contours glowing dark under the street lamps at his back. He is looking at Charles, he can tell, but not moving, not hiding, not doing anything but breathing. In and out, in and out.

Charles stands before him now, the muzzle of his gun pressed between the man's eyebrows. This close, he can see the shape of a prominent nose, strong jaw, thin lips – the veiled darkness of the man's eyes. He can smell the blood.

Charles laughs and the revolver clicks.

Instead of the bullet, it is the gun that jumps – sails over the man's head and into the water with a quiet splash, corpse mangled beyond recognition. Charles stands still, stunned yet not – frightened and gleeful with it. This; it had happened. He feels the phantom burn of a bullet in his shoulder, one of his own. It had actually happened.

"I love you," he tells the man, serious. Now it is that the man stumbles.

The watch about Charles' wrist vibrates, the knife strapped to his calf pulses and he is being pulled backwards – slammed against a wall and kept there, pinned like a butterfly. The man's steps are steady, echo in the empty space. Charles grins and watches him come near, studies his face as he passes under a row of windows.

Dark hair. Light eyes. Dark clothing. Light skin.

The man pauses, steps away, and catches Charles' gaze. And stares.

Charles grins harder and licks his lips.

"Du bist dran."

Dark, dark mind.

A knife appears in the man's hand – sudden, a sliver of silver. He steps closer and the blade twists under Charles' chin, raises a thin line of blood.

"I am not playing this game."

Charles huffs, head moving back and up to catch the empty blue of the man's eyes. "Too late, my friend. I believe we are near checkmate."

The knife presses closer and the skin splits, a dribble of red glinting against Charles' pale skin. The man's eyes have gone hard, harder than the metal he so easily manipulates, and Charles is hooked.

"I do not have to kill you," he says. But he will, he can, and is that not a thrill. Charles tells him so, laughs at the German's shocked face.

"Did someone send you?" The man shakes him, the knife bites, "You crazy fuck, why are you following me?"

"No, no," Charles gasps, throat pressed tightly against the blade, eyes bright, "No one sent me, love. Since Paris, it has been my chase and mine alone." The man pants in his face in anger, and Charles cannot resist, "How good of you to follow."

The smack of skin against skin is loud, a crack of the man's knuckles against Charles' jaw. Charles crumbles, the metal on his person his again, and resists the urge to cradle his pulsating face. The man has stepped back, mouth wide open, pulse loud and angry. But his eyes are still firmly on Charles and Charles smiles, raises a hand and wiggles his fingers.

"Come, love, help me up."

An unbelieving snort. The German does not move, and the knife is suddenly there again, hovering in mid-air and pointing straight at Charles' heart.

"I will ask again," quiet, the voice demands authority, the man demands control. Charles shivers and licks his lips again, tastes blood. "Why are you following me?"

"Because I am going to die." Charles laughs at the muttered, _You are certainly very close to it_. "No, eventually. Of course I will, and rather soon – you know, our line of work."

"So?" the man prods, follows Charles as he pushes to his knees and up.

"So," Charles repeats, raises his head, "I'd rather die besides you." He grins, eyes making an obvious journey up and down the man's body. "Working with you is bound to be fun."

They stare at each other in silence for a long moment. Finally, the knife falls into the German's hand with a quiet thump and he sheathes it, turns and walks away.

"No."

Charles stumbles after him, grinning. "But I haven't given you my pitch yet!"

The man snorts, opens his mouth to tell him to fuck off, but Charles is suddenly there – body twisting around the German's larger build, hands twisting behind the man's neck and _pulling_. And then Charles' mouth is on his and nothing but an angry grunt makes it through.

Heat. Charles purrs when strong teeth bite his bottom lip, undeterred – hell, turned on. He moans and licks at the man's teeth, underneath them – squeezes the man's jaw and forces his tongue in even as he feels the air around them vibrate. Warmth and burnt coffee, beer and whiskey and smoke – he presses closer, molds his body against the hard line of his would-be killer. Of his once-victim. And when his fingers scratch at the man's scalp, there is at last a give and he is pushed out and back into his own mouth, chased by the heat of the man's tongue. Then there is nothing left that is his, for everything of him, in him is being claimed – burned under an all-encompassing anger.

They break apart as violently as they had come together. The man's glare is death but his lips are puffy, his cheeks are flushed; Charles grins, licks the blood off his own lips, feels the skin about his mouth redden with stubble burn.

"You are insane!" the man finally spits at him. Charles shrugs.

"Yet, I am alive," he smiles and directs a meaningful glance at the knife sheathed in the German's belt.

The man stands still for a moment longer. Finally, an angry _Fuck it_ bounces off the walls and he is walking away again, towards the door.

When Charles follows him this time, nothing is said.


End file.
